The Professionals

by Max Hennessy

  * * *

  Sykes was standing inside the mess hut, unwinding a scarf about forty feet long from round his neck. There was black on his cheeks and his eyes looked like saucers where his goggles had protected them from the cordite as he’d fired his gun. He struggled out of a leather coat and dropped it on the floor, and one of the mess staff immediately picked it up. Sykes thanked him with a condescending grace that wasn’t a bit offensive but when I dropped mine I noticed no one rushed to help me.

  It was typical of Sykes. His background was Eton, fox-hunting and cavalry, and his manner was the well-bred politeness of generations of wealth. He had a string of initials a yard long – C. L. W. B. D. Sykes – but no one ever called him anything else but ‘Bill’ because the only character with that name that most people knew was the one in Dickens. It certainly didn’t suit him. It was short and blunt and ugly while Sykes was slender and handsome, despite his wry neck, and full of the sort of lazy charm that made lesser mortals like me melt in front of him.

  He stared up at the sky as though trying to assess just what was happening in the darkness, vague and faintly weary. ‘Bit tricky up there for a minute, young Falconer,’ he observed.

  ‘You saw me?’ I said.

  ‘Couldn’t miss you.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘Rushin’ in! Angels fear to tread and all that. Have to be more careful, old boy. Dangerous, that sort of thing, shouldn’t wonder.’

  His casualness infuriated me. ‘I’ll have to be careful!’ I snorted. ‘You came right across ahead of me.’

  He blinked. ‘After the sausage,’ he said. ‘Fearfully excited.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing there anyway?’

  ‘Chasing the old Zepp, like you. Hadn’t the foggiest where I was. Had you?’

  I stared at him. He gazed at me, his head on one side because of the wound he’d got in France the previous year and looking like an amiable setter. I grinned, completely disarmed.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He beamed, as though it were the most important thing in the world that we shouldn’t lose our tempers with each other.

  ‘Get shot at?’ he asked.

  ‘Couple of times. How about you?’

  ‘Same with knobs on. Feller on top with a gun. Quite bad-tempered. Got a few holes through my centre section. Hit you at all?’

  ‘One on the exhaust. Thought it had fallen off.’

  ‘Might well have – from a BE.’ He smiled again. ‘Ought to do this sort of thing more cunningly, y’know. Come in from opposite sides at the same time. Like we planned in France for tackling two-seaters. Can’t shoot at both of us at once.’

  ‘Only one problem,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What do we do when we meet in the middle in the dark?’

  He chuckled. ‘Same as tonight,’ he said. ‘Take violent evasive action.’

  ‘This ripping off the wings, and plummeting to earth like a spent rocket in a death dive.’

  He blinked, then he grinned. ‘Been reading too much John Bull,’ he observed.

  I glanced at the sky. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I don’t much enjoy being an intrepid birdman in the dark, do you? I reckon they should at least fit us up with lighted instruments. Or a pair of Mark I Owl’s Eyes.’

  A sergeant put his head in the door. ‘The others are coming in now, sir,’ he called.

  We went to the door to see what sort of mess the others would make of their landings and stood outside the hut, staring into the blackness. The flares were still burning and you could see the smoke from them, illuminated by their own flames, drifting away in long yellow curves down the line. Somewhere up above I could hear a big 140-horse engine roaring. It was over to the east of the field by the end of the landing area and it sounded strange.

  Then it dawned on me I could hear not one but two. As I listened, the noise died away until there was only a subdued muttering in the darkness.

  ‘There are two of ’em out there,’ I said. ‘And they’re both coming in!’

  ‘That ought to be jolly,’ Sykes observed flatly, his breath hanging in clouds on the chilly night air. ‘Especially if they come in together.’

  As he spoke, I saw the red ball of a Very light drop out of the sky. ‘There’s one of ’em!’

  Another red ball came down at roughly the same level as the first but to the port side of the landing area and almost at the same time a third red ball curved up from the ground. It was in answer to the first machine that was drifting in on its final descent from the starboard side of the runway, but I heard two engines roar and I guessed that the pilot of the second machine, which was coming in from the port side, had probably not seen the first machine’s signal because of his own wings and had assumed that the answering red ball was for him.

  Sykes stared at me. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said sharply and started to run.

  I was heading for the officer in charge of the flarepath to warn him but he had anticipated me and I saw a couple of flares rise into the darkness. We were all too late. I heard a motor scream agonisedly somewhere just above me, as the panic-stricken pilot did just what I’d done when I’d seen Sykes and shoved the throttle forward in an attempt to dodge, then there was a soft crunching noise above it, and an aeroplane whirred past out of the darkness, a great black shape of square wings and struts.

  It seemed to be moving crabwise and, as it was silhouetted for a moment by the glow of the flames, I saw its wingtip had collapsed and the aileron was clattering wildly. The next moment, it had thumped into the ground and I saw fragments fly off as it slithered along the grass, churning up the turf, then it came to a stop, tilted up on its nose and dropped back on to its tail, still rocking slightly. I reached it almost as it stopped. The pilot was head down in the cockpit, snoring loudly through the blood that came from his nose, and I snatched at his safety belts and began to drag him from the cockpit. I could smell petrol and firmly expected the machine to go up in flames.

  Somewhere behind me I heard a low ‘thud’ and saw the cockpit glow, then a couple of mechanics arrived and we heaved the pilot out and dragged him away from the machine with trailing feet, still blowing blood from a pulped nose. It was Williamson, and as far as I could see he was all right except for a broken nose and the loss of a few teeth. He’d mend, I decided, and as I let him sink to the dew-laden grass, I turned round, wondering what had happened to the other machine.

  It was at the far end of the runway, burning fiercely, and I caught glimpses of dark figures hovering round it, then the blood wagon bounced past me over the turf, its red cross picked out by the blaze, the Major clinging to the running board and shouting at the driver.

  * * *

  The smell of oily smoke still filled the mess hut as Sykes thrust a glass in my hand. ‘Drink that up,’ he said.

  I swallowed it without a word. When I’d donned uniform I’d been a non-drinker and a non-smoker, but eighteen months of war had changed all that and I swallowed it without turning a hair.

  As Sykes sat down, the Major came in. He was a nutty little man with a leathery face and a limp that was a relic of an old crash.

  ‘Anything been heard of McSpadden, sir?’ Sykes asked.

  The Major shook his head and asked for a drink. As he turned he looked old and tired. ‘Three,’ he said bitterly. ‘I expect he’s in the sea.’

  ‘Two, sir,’ I pointed out. ‘Williamson’ll be all right.’

  ‘Not for a month or two,’ he said. ‘Call it three.’

  He swallowed his drink and vanished. I glanced across at Sykes, who was sprawled in a cane chair by the bar. My coat was still on the floor where I’d dropped it and we were both grimy with the oil from our engines and the cordite from our guns after our scuffle in the night sky. Huddled in his stained jacket, his hair flat and spiky where he’d wrenched off his flying helmet and goggles, Sykes suddenly looked weary.

  ‘What a perfectly bloodstained night,’ he said slowly. ‘One dead, one in the sea, one injured. It se
ems to me there needs to be a little organization brought into this night-flying lark.’

  For a moment I said nothing. Ideas had been burning in my mind ever since I’d watched the ambulance crash past to pick up what was left of Graves. ‘We ought to be at different heights,’ I said.

  Sykes lifted his head slowly. His eyes were a brilliant blue and they seemed to glow in the light of the lantern on the bar. I tried to explain.

  ‘We ought to be at different heights,’ I said again. ‘And flying different courses so we can’t meet. It’s too slapdash this way.’

  He managed to look interested, but it seemed an effort. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it seems a bit futile to let a dozen machines in the air at once when they can’t see each other. There ought to be a system of patrols.’

  Sykes gestured. ‘Go on, Brat,’ he said. ‘For a schoolboy, you talk a lot of sense.’

  I leaned on the bar. ‘Suppose machines were sent up to patrol at eight, nine and ten thousand feet,’ I said. ‘Each pilot with a beat, and orders – strict orders – not to leave it in case he collides with someone else. He stays up there, patrolling up and down for two hours, keeping a sharp look out, and only moves off it if he sees the Hun. When his time’s up he comes down, at – say – the north end of his beat, by which time another machine is relieving him at the south end. This way no two machines are in the same spot at once or coming in at the same time. That way we ought to cover a lot of ground without any of the trouble we’ve had tonight.’

  Sykes smiled and rubbed his nose. It was well-shaped but large and bony. ‘Makes sense,’ he observed. ‘Ought to go a long way if you survive. I’ll put your ideas to the Old Man. He’ll probably put you up for a general.’

  Chapter 2

  The clouds that had enabled the Zeppelin to escape from us closed in fast. The wind coming out of the north-west was full of rain and there were great pools of water along the folds of the flying field. The Bessoneaux flapped wanly in the wind and the mechanics went about their business with their heads down inside their coat collars, their noses raw and red-looking.

  ‘Week-end leave seems to be indicated,’ Sykes said.

  We got the tender to take us to the station and in London I grabbed the first taxi I saw and shouted ‘Liverpool Street’ at the driver.

  ‘Here, hang on!’ Sykes was just behind me, pushing his bag in alongside me. ‘I’m coming too.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Liverpool Street.’

  ‘Do you live my way?’

  ‘I dunno. Where do you live?’

  We stared at each other. I’d known him for several months, first in France and now again back in England, and it had never occurred to either of us to find out where the other came from.

  ‘Fynling,’ I said. ‘East of Norwich.’

  He grinned. ‘Hathersett,’ he said. ‘Bit to the west.’

  I stared at him. ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ I said. ‘How long have you lived there?’

  He blinked. ‘All my life,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Six or seven years.’

  He smiled. ‘Almost neighbours. Nice place, Fynling. Met a cracking girl down that way when I was convalescent after being wounded.’

  ‘We ought to get together some time,’ I said. ‘Do you shoot?’

  ‘Not as well as you.’

  I grinned, enjoying the thought of being able to show the great Sykes something. ‘I can get a gun and a punt,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a few tips.’

  He looked interested. ‘Can you get away with it?’

  ‘We’re not supposed to with the war on but I know the local bobby. He always looks the other way. I go out occasionally. You should try it.’

  ‘Too busy,’ he said. ‘Horses are my downfall.’

  We picked up the Norwich train and sat beaming at each other. There was a little man in the compartment who looked like a London businessman going home for the week-end and he got into conversation.

  ‘What happened to the Big Push?’ he asked.

  ‘What Big Push?’ Sykes stared at him with that blank look he always put on for people he disliked. It made him look stupid.

  The little man frowned. ‘The one on the Somme,’ he said. ‘Someone made a mess of it, didn’t they?’

  ‘Germans.’ Sykes nodded knowingly. ‘Didn’t play fair.’

  The little man stared at him. ‘Didn’t play fair!’ he said. ‘It’s not a game out there, you know.’

  Sykes, his head still askew from an old painful wound, stared at him. ‘It isn’t?’ he said, feigning amazement.

  ‘They’ll have to start another one now.’ The little man’s indignation was immense. ‘Another push, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, they will,’ Sykes agreed. ‘As soon as the dust settles from this one.’

  ‘What’s it going to be like?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When they start a new push.’

  Sykes shrugged. ‘Pushier than this one, I expect.’

  The little man refused to let us alone and we were glad when he got out at Colchester. As we left on the last leg, we saw an aeroplane moving along with the train. ‘Avro,’ Sykes said, studying it. ‘Nice buses. Steady as a rock. Once heard of one that took off on its own and was chased by the pilot in a car for fifty miles. He caught it up just as it landed. Put itself down like a feather.’

  ‘Bit too steady for me,’ I said.

  He stared at me. ‘That’s a funny thing to say,’ he observed. ‘Bit too steady? Always thought that was the one thing we were after in aeroplanes.’

  I shrugged. ‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘that if an aeroplane’s nice and steady to shoot from, it’s going to be nice and steady to shoot at. The sort of aeroplane I’m looking for is one that isn’t nice and steady, and if you move the joystick it’ll flick over on to its back in a second. If it’ll do that it’ll probably be hard to hit.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘You’re a studious old buster, all things considered. Only chap I ever came across who thought about flying. You’ve got quite a point there.’

  As we parted on the platform at Norwich, he waved. ‘Have to try to get together,’ he said. ‘I sometimes get over to Fynling. How’re you getting home?’

  ‘Train,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I expect someone will have sent the motor to meet me.’

  ‘Oh!’ I decided Sykes’ family must be important if they could afford a motor car.

  ‘Awful fag,’ he said. ‘Keeps stopping.’

  I hadn’t told anyone I was coming home so there was no one to meet me at Fynling. But the grocer’s shop was just down the road and I could see the horse and trap outside. I put my head through the door.

  ‘Going my way?’ I asked.

  The grocer grinned. ‘Hello, Master Martin,’ he said. ‘Yes, we are. This very minute. Jump in.’

  He dropped me on the main road outside the village. It was all achingly familiar – a watery sun and the usual cold wind coming from the east, and marshes stretching as far as the eye could travel to the North Sea. It was already all so much a part of me, I couldn’t ever imagine not wanting to come home. It was here I’d learned to sail and here I’d first used a gun.

  There was no one at home when I arrived. My mother was involved with hospital work, while my father was lecturing for the army at one of the colleges in Cambridge. The cook greeted me as if I were her own long-lost son, however, and enfolded me to her vast bosom until I was breathless.

  ‘How about a bit of grub, Cookie?’ I said as she released me.

  ‘Just you sit down there, Master Martin,’ she said, shoving things aside on the kitchen table, ‘and I’ll have it ready in a jiffy. It’ll have to be bacon and eggs, though, because it’s hard to get much else these days.’

  ‘Sounds fine,’ I said.

  ‘How many eggs?’

  ‘Make it a round dozen,’ I suggested, and she slapped at me with the
tea-towel.

  When I’d eaten I went to my room to change into civvies. It was full of the model aeroplanes I’d made while at school. They looked extraordinarily flimsy now and I realized how flying had changed since the war – how I’d changed. Suddenly I was aware of a tremendous feeling of frustration and had to get out of the house. Like so many more I was divorced by a whole age from the period before the war had started, different from those who were too young to know it and a complete alien to those who were old enough to have had a life before it. Suddenly flattened, I went outside and dug out a bicycle from the woodshed to ride over to Jane’s. The Widdowses had farmed the land around for generations and I’d spent half my life in and out of their house, helping with the harvest, rabbiting, shooting – even labouring while I was waiting to go into uniform.

  Mr Widdows was in the stackyard with an old man and a boy too young to be in the army, dragging things about that were far too heavy for a man of his age.

  ‘Hello, Martin,’ he said, clearly glad to take a breather.

  ‘Where’s Jane?’

  He paused, glanced sideways at the old man and blew his nose heavily; it seemed he was taking time to think – almost as though he needed to choose his words. It had an odd, isolating effect because I’d always regarded their family almost as my own, sharing their sorrows and secrets and joys, so that it was curiously hurtful to feel he had to think before he spoke.

  ‘She’s out,’ he said.

  ‘Norwich? Shopping?’

  ‘Think so. I don’t really know.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘Don’t know that either. Don’t really know what she gets up to at all these days. She got a job working with a typewriting machine in Norwich, y’know. Released some chap for the army. Seems to like it.’

  The world had changed, I decided. I couldn’t ever remember a time when I’d come home and Jane hadn’t been around to torment me.